


Switch Inputs

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Basically Just Trying to Heal the Fandom Right Now, First Kiss, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, John and Sherlock Finally Make Good Choices, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sad with a Happy Ending, The Final Problem is Fake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: On the day John moves back into 221B, they receive another disk from Mary.This time, they make good choices.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseinMyHand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseinMyHand/gifts).



Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door frame of the flat, a stack of mail in her hands: a copy of _Soldier_ magazine (less necessary now that John is back; still welcome), something from Sherlock's bank, and a conspicuously thick padded envelope. Sherlock's heart sinks as he examines the mailing label.

Another message from beyond the grave. From _her_. And they'd been doing so well lately, he and John.

The man himself thunders his way up the stairs, as Mrs. Hudson hands Sherlock the mail. She can't take her eyes off the padded envelope. She shakes her head and purses her lips. Disapproval. She tolerated the first DVD well enough, even helped both of them through watching it. After she learned about the second, she started making comments about letting go, moving on, about calling what's done, done.

Sherlock thanks the powers that be, even the ones he doesn't believe in, for Hudders.

John is in the flat, a cardboard box in his arms, a backpack slung over one shoulder, a gym bag over the other, wearing a happy half-smile as he looks at them. Sherlock can see it on his face: the confirmation that he and Mrs. Hudson are John's chosen family. No: his actual family. They've said it often enough. Eight times, in the weeks since they stood in this very room, and Sherlock held John in his arms, and John wept hot tears that stained Sherlock's shirt.

Everything, it seems, broke open that day, and allowed in all this new, somewhat terrifying, entirely welcome stuff. And now, John himself.

John has moved back in.

John drops the box and bags with a satisfied grunt. "That's the last of it," he announces, flexing his left hand. He's nervous, then. Excited. Maybe a little unsure.

_That makes two of us._

They're family, but what, precisely, that means, has yet to be worked out.

"I'm going to check on Rosie," Mrs. Hudson announces, apropos of nothing. They've set up her playpen in Mrs. Hudson's spare bedroom, so they can keep her separate from the chaos of the move.

"Asleep, fed, changed," Sherlock says, more for John's sake than anything else. He's become a bit hyper vigilant lately, with good reason. "She's taking all this in stride, it seems."

John's eyebrows quirk up and his mouth pulls down on one side, before he settles on a nod. "Good."

"All right, I'll just head downstairs then," Hudders says. She shoots Sherlock a sympathetic look, and pauses to squeeze John's elbow. "John, dear, I'm so pleased. You don't know how good it is to have you living here again."

"All right, yes, thanks." A pink heat comes into John's cheeks. His ears redden. He clears his throat. Emotion. His whole body radiates happiness, open hearted good feeling.

It's a beautiful change.

Sherlock feels it too. He loves what they've become. He loves the familiarity of it, of being in each others' small, domestic orbit again, but mostly he loves the potential in it: they've been through the fire—that last bit, quite literally—and they've made a choice, this time, to return to each other. They've made this decision together.

Their eyes linger to the sound of Hudders' retreating footsteps, John's sweeping over Sherlock's chest, his face. Sherlock studies the lines on John's forehead. He looks worn by care, like a piece of paper, rubbed too often between fingers and thumb.

_Know that I will always be your friend. I just can't be near you now. I don't know how long I need. Maybe a long time. Maybe forever._

John's letter burned its way into Sherlock's memory the moment he read it. Still, he keeps it with him at all times. Today, it's tucked into the pocket of his dressing gown, a reminder of how things can change for the better, even if they seem impossible.

"Don't fancy carrying all this up another set of stairs," John says, looking at the pile of his things in the corner of the sitting room. "Maybe I should kip in your room." He looks at the sofa, then back at Sherlock.

It's a joke. Is it? John's eyes look wet. He's frowning at the floor. He rocks up onto his toes, then back down again.

Sherlock finds that he's staring at the mail he's holding, his thumb stroking the glossy corner of _Soldier_ magazine. Inside his head, he is screaming. _Yes, John. Sleep in my room, with me._

He wonders where that leaves Rosie. Her disassembled crib leans against the sitting room wall, under Smiley. There is so much to sort out. Logistics. And, logistics. At least, he desperately hopes there are.

"Sorry." John's voice is soft. So quiet, it's barely a whisper.

"All right." Sherlock nods, still holding the mail. He's hidden the padded envelope under the magazine. He doesn't remember doing that.

"What's this?" John tugs the envelope out from Sherlock's hand. He looks at it, and sighs heavily. "Oh." He's frowning, turning it this way and that. He winces.

"I don't have a DVD player any more," Sherlock says. "Never replaced it after the—" he flourishes his hand to indicate the explosion, which was, as it turns out, a minor pyrotechnic display, enhanced by a heavy dose of hypnagogic drugs. Only a bit of damage done, to the flat, at least. Thanks, Mycroft.

"Ah. I brought mine. Got it here somewhere." John slips into action mode. He picks through the boxes, finds one, and opens it. He hands over the player and digs through the box for the connector wires.

Reluctantly, Sherlock takes the player over to the television. He places it on the floor, and waits. John hands him the connector. Sherlock leans awkwardly against the edge of the mantelpiece, stretching to reach behind the telly, to find the inputs. He can't really see what he's doing, so he fumbles about blindly, while John connects the other end to the player, and plugs it in.

"All right," Sherlock says, finally. "Let's give it a try."

John sighs as he tears open the envelope. The disk just says "MISS." The handwriting is shakier than on the first two disks. Everything descends into nonsense, it seems. Sherlock wonders, like he did the last time, if Mary's about to reveal that it's all been some elaborate prank, that she is, in fact, not dead. And what would happen then? Pain. Heartbreak.  

John hesitates for what seems like an incredibly long time before he puts the disk into the player. He presses play, and the two of them take a step back from the telly.

The screen is blue. It remains so, although the player grinds to life.

"Sorry," Sherlock says. "Must have got the wrong input."

He squeezes himself behind the telly again, bending down awkwardly to try to see where he's gone wrong.

_So many places, in so many ways._

He pulls the connector and leans down a bit more. "I think I had one of the audio inputs in the wrong spot. Hang on." He can sort of see the panel now. He turns the connector in his hand. "Got it." He's trying to check what he's done, when he feels John's hand on his waist.

"Sherlock."

"Wait a moment, John. I need to make sure."

"Sherlock, never mind that. Stand up." The hand shifts, moving its way across Sherlock's stomach, and it lifts, pulling him back into an upright position.

Sherlock stares at the telly. It's off. John has turned it off.

"I think I got it right," Sherlock says, unable to look at John. John's hand is still on him. It's sliding around to the back of his waist, settling on his lower back.

"I'm sure you did," John says. His voice is husky. "You always do."

"Well, except for that whole Eurus deal. Missed that one."

"You couldn't know it was an elaborate prank to celebrate your birthday. I mean, who hires a special effects team and a bunch of actors, just for the sake of a joke?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Mycroft."

"There are better ways to let you know your parents are renovating your childhood home."

"He thought it would be funny." Sherlock is stalling. Maybe they both are.

"Yeah well, it wasn't. I mean, drugging us both and convincing us you had a sister so he could fly you out to Musgrave as a surprise."

"The fireworks were nice."

"I nearly murdered him."

"Which gave him a perfect excuse to eat half the cake." Sherlock allows himself a laugh.

John doesn't reply. Sherlock wonders if John is also thinking about what came after, about how they ended up sharing a tent for the night. That narrow space, the hush of the countryside, the two cots crammed together under the canvas. Their hands, intertwined. They'd both been a bit tipsy. Giddy with relief, after the crisis that wasn't, in fact, a crisis.  

And now, another one. They should just watch the disk, and get it over with. Who burns disks any more, anyway? Mary should have stuck to flash drives.

John steps closer, his shoulder tucking in under Sherlock's arm. Sherlock is frozen in place. He can't move. He moved before, when John needed him, needed to be held, to be told it was all okay. That was different. There were tears. Now Sherlock is the one who needs. Well, maybe John does too. Physical affection? Comfort? These messages from Mary tend to tear him apart.

John's arm squeezes around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock places a hand on John's shoulder, tentatively. John clears his throat. Last time, he allowed Sherlock to hold him for four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Sherlock will allow John to hold him for much longer. As long as John wants him.

John moves away. He lets go of Sherlock—far too soon—and he leans down for the DVD player, and he opens the tray.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock is so surprised, he blurts the question.

John shakes his head. He holds the disk for a long moment, in one hand, as if it's a dangerous animal, and might bite. He glances at Sherlock's face. "No, I don't think so."

He isn't talking to Sherlock. He's talking to the disk. Or to her. Maybe both. Without another word, he snaps the disk in half.

"John!" Sherlock takes a step back, bumping painfully into the corner of the mantelpiece. It gets him right between the shoulder blades. He takes a sharp breath, hand out, as if he can take the disk from John, and somehow mend it.

"It's over," John says. "She didn't really know anything in the end. I mean, she knew some things about me. Things I didn't even want to admit to myself. We argued about them. And I think, in a sense, she was basically right, sometimes. But she was wrong, in that last message."

He turns and walks away.

Sherlock is left with a sick feeling in his stomach, a combination of abject fear and wild hope, the corner of the mantel digging into his back. From the kitchen comes the sound of the trash bin opening and closing. John returns, empty handed. He's smiling. Sherlock realises his mouth is open. He closes it.

"Aren't you going to ask?" John says. His eyes are warm and bright.

Sherlock can barely breathe. "Ask what?"

"What she was wrong about."

Sherlock is caught between the mantel and the telly. The only way out is to go through John, and John is standing so close now.

"All right. What was she wrong about?"

"Who we are. What we could become. She said it doesn't matter." John steps forward, and takes Sherlock's hand. "It does."

Sherlock is shaking. "Does it?"

John nods. He steps in a bit closer. "And I meant everything I said, Sherlock. I do want more. I still do." John's voice breaks. He's standing inches away, staring at Sherlock's chest. He lifts his chin and looks into Sherlock's eyes. "I always have."

Sherlock watches John, uncertain what happens now, knowing nothing, except how long a journey this has been. He's ragged, exhausted, not entirely well. But he will walk these last few steps, even if they're his last. "Then you should have it. Whatever you want, John."

"Even if it's you?"

Sherlock is panting. He can feel his face crumpling, as the room turns upside down and John reaches for the side of his neck, and John's thumb traces the line of his jaw.

"Especially if it's me, John."

Everything happens at once. John makes a desperate, high-pitched noise and pulls Sherlock down, and he presses his lips to Sherlock's, and John's breath is in Sherlock's mouth. A sound of earnest desire comes from the back of Sherlock's throat, as they both try to turn their heads the same way, and their noses crash together, and John giggles. Sherlock's stomach flips and he thinks _oh no, I've cocked it up already_ , but John keeps on, valiant soldier that he is. He kisses Sherlock's mouth over and over, kisses his cheek, pulls Sherlock into his arms, and Sherlock grips him tightly, rubbing his hand over John's back, as John goes up on his toes to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock sighs, and the sigh feels very much like a sob. John's lips brush his lips. John pulls back a bit, and studies him.

"All right?"

Sherlock nods.

"I'm in love with you, Sherlock. I think I have been since the night we met." He clears his throat. "I just couldn't admit it."

"I didn't give you much reason to think that you could," Sherlock says. He understands, now. He understands so much more than he used to. "If it helps, I love you too. Have for a while. Should have mentioned." He smiles. It's painful. His face hurts. He's talking too fast.

"I know. I know what you did, what you've done. I understand."

"Maybe we should have watched the disk. Maybe you needed to."

"Shh. I didn't. I don't. That's over. It's time for a new story."

Sherlock melts under John's touch. He needs to sit down. He needs to lie down. He needs to lie down with John.

John kisses his cheek, his neck. John's hands slide lower, and settle on Sherlock's hips. John looks down, and smiles, then looks into Sherlock's eyes. John's eyes are a constantly changing blue. They're dark now, and so very soft.

"Let's set Rosie's crib up out here, for tonight," John says.

"Oh. Yes. Good." Sherlock has no idea why they're talking about Rosie's crib. John's right thumb draws a delicious circle on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock is on fire, the entire surface of his skin ablaze.

"I think—we'll want some privacy."

They're alone right now. Sherlock doesn't understand, but he nods. "Yes."

"So. Can I kip in your room tonight?"

_Ah._ "God, John. Oh God. Yes."


End file.
